Thieves in Law
by Tormentas
Summary: When a petty officer is murdered by a Russian mafiosa, the NCIS team moves in to investigate. They soon find themselves caught up in a criminal world of violence and secrets. When the members of this underworld come to test them, can NCIS survive?
1. Two Coins to Cross the River

English

_Russian_

I don't own NCIS. Please Review!

* * *

The rain rattled off the cold sidewalk like thousands of tiny icicles, nipping at the face and neck of Taras Taraevich Stanislav. The rain dribbled down his forehead and the back of his neck, into his eyes and down over the convoluted network of tattoos on the Russian's back. Taras flicked up the collar of his coat, hunching his shoulders against the cold rain. The streetlights cast dark shadows which the tall Russian melded in and out of as he walked slowly down the empty street. A few notes of Handel drifted out of Taras's pocket.

"_Da?_"

"_Taras, it's Kirill. The man just left the Trostoyka on 4th and Boulevard. He's heading your way._"

"_You're sure he's our man?"_

_"Positive. Bald, early twenties, anchor tattoo on the back of the neck."_

_"Understood. Take care."_

_"Dasvidania."_

He closed his phone, and turned left onto a slightly more crowded street whose sides were lined with restaurants. Small groups of people walked past Taras, ignoring the grim faced young Russian. Taras's eyes scanned the pedestrians walking by, looking for the man Kirill had described. Then he saw him, a short broad shouldered man with a shaved head walking into a car lot. Taras sped up his pace, turning the corner to catch sight of the man opening the door of his car.

"Hey."

The man turned.

"Can I help you?"

Taras pulled back his collar, revealing a sixteen pointed star on his collarbone.

"Oh fuck."

"You know what the star means yes?"

"Yeah, I know. Look, I can get it to you by the end of the week ok? I just need a little more time. I'm saying this with respect ok? I just need a little more time."

"I'm sorry, this is nothing personal. Roza has declared you petrukha. Please face the car."

"Fuck you."

The man's hand jerked downwards towards the pocket of his coat.

Taras' hand rose, lifting a pistol to shoulder height. The FNP-40 barked, and two slugs hit the man in the head. The man toppled, blood spraying over the window of his car. The gun went back into the pocket, the gloved hand lifting a blood red rose out of the pocket. The rose was placed gently on the dead man's chest, and his hands were folded over the flower. His eyes were closed, and a penny was placed over each lid. Taras turned, and walked quickly out of the parking lot. A car pulled up outside the lot, the door on the passenger's side opening to let Taras in. The car rolled away, leaving behind the dead body and no witnesses.

"_Well?" _Kirill asked from the drivers seat beside Taras.

_"It's done."_

_"Good. What do you feel like?"_

_"Chinese?"_

_"What about Italian?"_

_"The little restaurant near Saint Nevsky's church?"_

_"Da."_

_"Sounds good."_

The car sped off into the night, moving silently away from the sounds of police sirens.

* * *

Tony groaned as he rolled over in bed. The high pitched ring of his cell hammered dully on the inside of his head.

"Hello?"

"Tony it's Gibbs. Get dressed. We've got a dead petty officer. I'm outside."

"Wha boss? It's christmas morning!"

"Get dressed Dinozzo, five minutes."

With that, the line went dead.

"Jeez."

A few minutes later, Tony was in the back seat of Gibbs's car, next to an equally tired looking Mcgee and Ziva David.

"So what's going on boss?"

"Dead petty officer was found last night in a parking lot on 4th and Boulevard. He'd been shot twice in the head. The Metro Police called us in thirty minutes ago."

The Charger sped down the road into the crowded streets of downtown Washington D.C tires screeching as Gibbs took turns too quickly. The car pulled into the lot at a hair raising speed, making several cops standing around jump in surprise.

"Boss, should you really be speeding around a bunch of cops?"  
"We're an emergency vehicle Dinozzo. We're allowed to break the speed limit."

"Oh, yeah. Right."

Tony yelped as Gibbs's hand slapped the back of his head.

"Agent Gibbs?" A man in a police uniform with a heavy brooklyn accent walked up up to the NCIS team.

"Yeah?"

"Detective Leo Kirshkin. You need to see something."

Bemused, Gibbs followed the cop over to a crowd of policemen who were fidgeting nervously. In the center of the circle was a body, eyes closed, hands folded as if at a morgue.

"This is the victim?"

"Yeah. Look Agent Gibbs, I'm from Brighton Beach, I know what this kinda arrangement of the body means."

"Oh really?" Gibbs turned to face the now sweating detective. "What does it mean."

"This guy... this guy was killed as a job. This was a hired killing."

"How do you know?"

"The rose? That's a message to us from the killer's boss. This murder was by the Brat stvo Nevsky. The rose is telling us not to investigate."

"And you're just going to listen to them detective? You're going to let a criminal tell you what to do?"

"Listen!" Kirshkin snapped angrily. "I've seen what happens to people who fuck with these guys. Believe me, there's nothing I'd like better than to put the fucks who did this on ice, but I'm not risking the lives of my family to do it. I would suggest you take my advice and leave this one alone. What's done is done. The man made an enemy he shouldn'tve made and he paid for it."

"Detective Kirshkin, you can remove your men from this crime scene, NCIS will be taking over here."

"I warned you Gibbs. Come on guys."

With that, the Metro Police left the NCIS team on it's own.

"So, what've we got Tony?"

"One dead guy boss, shot twice in the head."

"I can see that Tony. That isn't very helpful."

"Sorry boss."

"Mcgee?"

"Yeah boss."

"Those things on the chief petty officer's eyes. What are they?"

"Uh.." Mcgee leant down, and gently lifted two small coins from the eyelids of the dead body.

"Two pennies boss."

"Pennies?"

"You know Jethro, in ancient Greece, it was believed that for a soul to pass into the world of the dead, he or she would have to pay the ferryman two coins for safe passage into the underworld." Dr. Mallard and Jimmy Palmer walked up behind the team.

"We aren't in ancient Greece Doc. You got a time of death?"

"No, but many sects of Christianity keep up the practice. The Eastern Orthodox Church for example. As to the time of death, I just got here. I can't do magic Jethro."

"Brat stvo Nevsky is russian." Ziva cut in.

"What does it mean?"

"Brotherhood of Nevsky. Probably referring to the Eastern Orthodox saint Nevsky. Please don't interrupt my story Miss David." Ducky shot Ziva an annoyed glance before continuing.

Ducky nodded over to a police man who was standing behind Gibbs, holding a small cassete. "The shooting is on camera Jethro. The time of death can be confirmed there, but I'd guess it at around two oclock this morning. The blood has barely started to dry."

"Well, that makes life easy. Send the video to Abby Tony."

"On it boss."

* * *

The sounds of heavy metal drifted through the hall as Gibbs walked down to Abby's lab.

"What ya got for me Abs?"

"Gibbs! This is really cool. Well, not the murder bit but the thing with the rose! This guy must be a major movie nut or something this is so awesome!"

"Abby. What have you got?"

"Sorry."

Abby motioned to the large computer screen at the end of the room.

"I got a full face picture of our killer off the camera at the parking lot. I've run him through several databases, but came up nil on all the U.S files. However..."

Abby's fingers flew over the keyboard as she typed. "However he is in several databases in Europe and Russia, the three that stand out are these."

Three pictures came up on the screen. All were of the same man, Shaved head, very handsome, with several tattoos adorning his face.

"Taras Taraevich Stanislav. Rogue FSB agent as of twelve years ago, was arrested two years later for multiple murders, was convicted for one, served four years in a russian prison in Siberia, moved to England where he was arrested again for extortion, murder, and armed robbery. He did three years for extortion. The other two charges failed to hold up in court. He then moved here. He has been living here on a student visa for the past two years."

"Slow down Abby. You have an address?"

"Yep, 415 Meadow Drive."

"Good work Abs."

Gibbs left the lab, a large cup of Cafpow left on Abby's desk.


	2. Christmas Day

I do not own NCIS

**Dalara: **By all means. If I make a mistake in the Russian, please correct me. Thanks alot

Thanks to all who reviewed. Please Review Again! and again and again and again. I'll stop now. Onwards to NCIS Fic!

_Russian_

English

* * *

Gibbs watched the computer screen as Mcgee flipped through computer files on Daniel Stevens's killer.

"Taras Taraevich Stanislav. Born on October 14th 1982 to Taras and Milena Stanislav in Moscow Russia. Was sent to Juvenile for murder in 1998, was released in 99, arrested again for armed robbery and sent to a prison in Siberia in 2000 then was released again, and joined the FSB in 2003. Went rogue in 2007 and was arrested in 2008 by Interpol. He came here on a student visa in 2010 and has been living here ever since. He is an active member of the Eastern Orthodox diocese here in Washington D.C."

"Quite a fan of tats this Russian." Tony remarked as Mcgee flipped through pictures.

"Most Russian criminals have tattoos Dinozzo. It's how they identify each other."

"What like cats marking their territory or something?" Tony yelped as Gibbs slapped him.

"No."

"Ok boss."

"Mr. Stanislav has a rap sheet a mile long, and has been arrested but not convicted for three times as many crimes. He has a history of being an aggressive and disorderly prisoner, and according to the FSB file, he was in the top ten cadets the year he graduated from the Spetsnaz Academy. The man has over eighty successful ops under his belt, and no failures." Mcgee continued.

"But we know where he is?"

"Yes Gibbs." Ziva replied. "There have been no flights out of town with passengers matching his description. Presumably, he is still here."

"It's Christmas sunday boss. If he's religious, then he'd probably be at a mass."

"Grab your gear. We're going to church."

* * *

The Charger pulled up outside the ornate Church of Saint Nevsky a few minutes later. The rain that had started the night before was still falling, puddles forming on the sidewalk. As NCIS team entered the empty and silent church, they heard the sounds of two voices talking in hushed tones. Two men sat in the front pew, one dressed in the traditional robes of a Russian priest, the other clad in a dark dress coat.

_"You will come back tomorrow for the service?"_

_"Yes father."_

_"Good. That is how it should be. Take care of yourself my friend."_

_"Dasvidania Father."_

The two men rose, shook hands, then the man in the coat turned and walked past the NCIS team and out of the church. The priest followed the man down the aisle between the pews, stopping in front of Gibbs.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes, I'm Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS. We wanted to know if you'd seen this man before." Gibbs passed a picture of Stanislav to the priest.

"Oh yes I've seen Taras before. He came in a few minutes ago in fact. He needed confession."

"What about?"

"I can't share that with you agent Gibbs. A confession is a confidential matter."

"The man you gave absolution to is a criminal Father. I think you can let confidentiality slide here."

"No Agent Gibbs, I cannot. I would not break my vow of secrecy to anyone, not even the Almighty."

"Can you at least tell us where Taras Stanislav would be right now."

"Of course. He just walked out the door. He's probably in the parking lot right now."

"Tony, Ziva! Go!"

Tony and Ziva ran outside, just as a black Cadillac pulled out of a parking lot next to the church. Inside the car, sat the man from the bolo photo, Taras Stanislav. Except this man was holding a gun. Gunshots rang out as Taras fired blindly at the two NCIS agents as his car sped away. Rounds ricocheted off the stone steps of the church, one round grazing the side of Ziva's face. Both Ziva and Tony tried to draw their guns, but the Russian was far gone by the time they began to return fire.

"What the hell just happened?" Gibbs snapped as he and Mcgee ran outside.

"He opened fire on us boss."

"Get in the car. Mcgee!"

"Yeah boss?"  
"I want this assholes address."

"Got it boss."

* * *

When the door of the apartment opened, Taras was sitting on his couch. The Russian did not move as the agents roared at him to raise his hands and stand up. He picked up the remote, and changed the channel instead. He then turned to the agents and spoke.

"I assume you have a warrant for kicking down my door?"

Three of the agents started. The last one just elbowed Taras in the head.

Taras was grinning as he passed out.

* * *

"Hey asshole. Wake up."

Taras opened his eyes. He was sitting in a small room one side of which was dominated by a large mirror. Two way probably. Across a small metal table sat a middle aged man who was glaring angrily at Taras.

"You didn't have a warrant did you?"

"Be quiet. You are Taras Taraevich Stanislav?"

"Should I be quiet or answer the question?"

"Don't make this difficult."

"Then don't be contradictory."

"Are you Taras Stanislav, yes or no?" the agent growled.

"Yes I am."

"Where were you last night."

"Did you have a warrant for my arrest inspector?"

"What?"

"If you did not have a warrant, then I am sorry to say I will have to be leaving. Dasvidania."

Taras rose, and smiling at the expression of apoplectic rage on the agent's face, walked out of the room.

The last thing he heard before the door closed was the agent say three words.

"Ziva, detain him."

A black blur hit him on the side of the face. A fist connected with his temple, and Taras saw stars explode in front of his eyes. Training kicked in and the black blur soon became a panting middle eastern woman, whose face was beginning to resemble one very large bruise. Taras stepped away from the woman and settled into a relaxed stance. The woman came at him again, her leg colliding with the side of his knee, making Taras buckle. As he fell, his left leg came up, his heavy boot slamming into the woman's head. She reeled back, cursing loudly. Taras jumped back to his feet and came at her again, this time aiming for her midsection with his right. She blocked, twisted his arm, and tugged. Taras felt his arm wrenched from its socket with agonizing slowness, and whipped himself around, slamming the knuckles of his left hand into the woman's nose. There was a crack, and blood spurted from the woman's nostrils. Taras felt the cold barrel of a pistol press up against his neck, and heard a very angry voice tell him to release Ziva, who ever that was. For the second time that day, Taras's world went black.

* * *

Taras smelt roses. Not the dark blood red flowers of Europe, but something drier. A memory tugged at the back of the Russian's mind. A garden in Afghanistan. A rose garden. Gunfire, blood, screaming, a dark cave, knives, fire, blood. Taras cried out in alarm and opened his eyes. The woman was sitting across from him, a look of concern on her still bruised face.

"Mr. Stanislav?"

Taras tugged on the chair he was sitting on, check that, bound to. It was a mentally unstable harness, supporting his dislocated arm, now back in its socket, and keeping him restrained.

_"Just the touch of demons."_ Taras murmured quietly.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing."

"You hit very hard."

"I know."

"Where did you learn to fight?"

Taras was silent. He lowered his head to his chest, trying to quell the splitting head ache that was pounding on the inside of his skull.

"Where did you get that tattoo?" the woman pointed to a tattoo on the back of his head which was now visible.

"Prison."

"What prison?"

"Russian Prison."

"Do you remember the name?"

"Never bothered to check."

"Why not?"

"It doesn't matter."

The woman was silent for a bit. Then she pushed a photograph over to Taras.

"You know this man?"

"No."

"You killed him."

"Yes."

"But you didn't know who he was?"

"So what? I don't have to know you to kill you."

"So you just killed him for no reason."

"There is always a reason."

"What was your reason?"

"It doesn't matter."

The woman fidgeted in her seat. Taras knew he was making her uncomfortable. He smiled inwardly. He did love mind games.

"Why doesn't it matter?"

"He's dead."

"He's a human being."

"Was."

The silence was almost painful. Taras looked up into the woman's face. She was staring at him with something akin to fear. But there was something else, an understanding sort of look.

"You are charged with the murder of Daniel Stevens, a petty officer in the U.S Navy. We have enough evidence to send you to prison for at least the next thirty years. The best I can do is offer you a deal to shorten the sentence."

"Why would you give me a deal."

"We would like to know who hired you to kill Petty Officer Stevens."

"Was I hired by someone?"

"We have reason to believe you were."

"Why should I betray them?"

"To avoid a life sentence." The woman answered quickly. She clearly assumed Taras feared prison. The idea made Taras smile.

"You can't charge me with anything."

"What?"

"You did not have a warrant when you arrested me, nor have I been read my rights, nor have I been given a lawyer. As of now, I can sue you for over a million dollars, and you most certainly cannot charge me with anything. Please unstrap me from this chair."

Silently, the woman rose and released the straps from the chair. Taras rose, stretched, grimaced as he swung his right arm around experimentally, then walked out.

Taras walked quickly down the hallway, past the still glowering middle aged agent, past an equally angry looking younger man, and almost bumped into a rather petite redheaded woman.

"Excuse me, Mr. Stanislav?"

"Da?" Taras stared down at the woman who he had nearly run over.

"I am the director of NCIS. I would like to apologize on behalf of the NCIS agency for my agent's behavior. There is a Russian Embassy car waiting for you outside."

"Thank you but no. I will call a friend. I have no intention of suing NCIS. Who was the young woman who dislocated my arm?"

"Agent Ziva David."

"Israeli?"

"Mossad Lea-son to NCIS."

"Tell her I was going to win. Dasvidania Miss Director."


	3. Vory v Zakone

I do not own NCIS

_Russian_

English

I corrected a mistake on Taras's last name, kudos to Dalara btw, his last name is now Stanislavsky.

Please Review!

* * *

The bar was almost empty. The only occupants were Taras and Kirill, the former straddling a chair, the latter sitting behind Taras, moving a scratch built tattooing needle across a tattoo on Taras's back of a russian orthodox church. An old man sat behind the bar, a violin held in his hands. The soft lament of the violin drifted through the bar, the sound soothing and yet strangely unsettling.

Taras closed his eyes as he felt the needle puncture his skin. A drop of blood rolled down his back as the rough shod needle went in too deep.

_"If you want to torture me just break out the knives Kirill."_

_"Suck it up. You wanted a prison tattoo and that's what I'm giving you."_

_"What are you using as a needle?"_

_"Guitar string."_

Taras grimaced.

_"Just get it done."_

Kirill laughed. _"You have a flight to Tel Aviv in the morning. Israel has taken the papers. You are now Nikolai Turasova, a Russian born Jew."  
_

_"I will not wear a kippah."_

_"Dont worry, I checked the papers over myself. You are non practicing. You have a girlfriend who you will be living with in Tel Aviv, and three cousins who also live in Tel Aviv. The three cousins are Otritsala. They'll take care of you. Not in the bad or weird way of course."  
_

_"Just finish the rework."_

Taras took a swig from a bottle of vodka standing in front of him. The needle hummed as the guitar string attached to a shaving buzzer danced across Taras's skin. The faded lines of the tattoo of a Russian church with four steeples darkened and became solid once more as Kirill stenciled over the old tattoo.

_"Where will I be living in Israel?"_

_"Near the coast. We bought you a nice private property just outside the city."_

_"How much?"_

_"Four point eight million."_

_"Fuck. You could have bought me an apartment."_

_"Eh. The Father felt you deserved something better than a cheap apartment in Tel Aviv."_

_"There's nothing wrong with a cheap apartment in Moscow."_

_"Aside from enemies and a very angry Section Chief in the FSB, there's nothing wrong with Moscow. Taras, the last time you went to Moscow, you were shot fifteen minutes after entering a city. I don't think Russia would be a place you would want to live."_

_"Fair enough."_

_"Anyway, you're going to be taking over for the Chechen who used to run our gun and drug rackets out of the middle east." _Kirill continued, wiping off his needle as he put away his tattooing kit.

_"Why? What happened?"_

_"Mossad got wind of a gun shipment heading for a Hamas militia just on the Israel-Palestine border. We had to hit the Chechen before the Israelis could get him in custody."_

_"So why am I inheriting this mess?"_

_"You're former FSB, you're not a boss so you can't refuse, and you're enough of a vicious fucker that you can keep our business partners in the middle east in line."_

_"Great. So I go from vodka and night clubs to sand and suicide bombers. That's wonderful."_

_"Don't complain. You've earned a captaincy."_

_"What?"_ Taras looked up at the old man sitting at the bar. A captaincy would give him a crew and territory of his own, and with a crew and territory came money, and more importantly, power.

"We decided to give you the Chechen's territory. Out of anyone we could think of, you were the best candidate." The old man murmured. "Kirill, give him his stars."

"Yes sir." Kirill replied. As the needle began to stencil in the design of a sixteen pointed star into one of Taras's shoulders, the Russian bowed his head in deference to the old man.

"Thank you sir."

"Don't mention it." The old man replied. "It was either you or me, and I know better than to go near the middle east. Congratulations by the way."

_"I hear the pretty little lady who kicked your ass yesterday goes to Tel Aviv every summer."_

_"I had her ass beat Kirill. Anyway, why should I care if some Israeli goes to Tel Aviv?"_

_"She dislocated your fucking shoulder. Her father is the head of Mossad Taras. You know, the one the Father does business with."_

_"Eli David is that bitch's father?"_

_"Yep."_

_"Shit. You still think Tel Aviv is still a good idea?"_

_"Best option you've got. Anyways, you'll be working for one of our friends there. Life shouldn't be too difficult."_

_"Famous last words my friend."_

_"Shut up and stop moving so I don't fuck this up."_

The two russians fell silent, the only noise in the bar the chattering of the tattooing machine and the cry of the violin. Taras sat quietly, musing over his new position. A Thief in Law, or Vory v Zakone was a position of considerable influence and power within any criminal organization, especially within the Russian Mafia. The bosses of the Mafia were all Vory, and it was only upon receiving the sixteen pointed star tattoo of the Vor, that a street soldier like Taras could take territory as his own and do business for himself. In the Russian underworld, if you weren't a Vor, you had no power. Vors wrote the laws and made the money. Everyone else had to wait their turn. As of now, Taras was done waiting.

* * *

The tarmac sizzled in the heat of the sun as the airbus taxied down the runway. Amongst the cars and taxi's waiting for the passengers of the airplane, sat a lone black Mercedes Benz. Inside, three tattooed men sat patiently waiting for their new captain.

_"So, how wet are this guy's feet?"_ one asked.

_"He's done time in Siberia Covchek. This guy's feet are probably frozen."_

_"I heard he was the one who sent Urla Imavenkov to heaven." _another man interjected.

_"Hm!"_ the second man snorted. _"Hell is more like it. That son of a bitch was so evil the devil would've blinked."_

_"Eh. Whatever. Here he comes now."_

Taras's lanky form approached the car. The door was opened, and the new ruler of Israel's underworld entered.


	4. Dead Present

_Russian_

Arabic

_Hebrew_

English

I do not own NCIS

Sorry for the delay. Please Review!

* * *

_"Sir." _A bulky vor walked up to the window of the black Mercedes._  
_

Taras looked up from his seat in the car. The warm night air drifted through the open windows of the Mercedes, stroking the Russian's shaved head.

_"Yeah?"_

_"The Jihadist is here."_

_"Ok. This is the one who ratted out the Chechen?"_

_"Yeah."_

_"Tell the others to have hardware on hand. I want this business over tonight. If he refuses to pay, make sure the package is placed in the lead truck."_

_"Yes sir."_

The bulky vor opened the door of the Mercedes for Taras. The desert was quiet in the predawn darkness, the only sound the rumbling of a dozen car engines.

"Ah, you are Uravenkov's replacement?" A young arab stands in the small clearing between the line of cars belonging to Taras, and a small group of pick up trucks.

"Yes. You are the son of Ali Burashev?"

"He is my father yes."

"You are here for the guns yes?"

"Of course. Hand them over."

"Money first."

"What money?"

Taras stared at the young man for a moment. "You're kidding no? The five hundred thousand euros this shipment cost us to get hold of."

"I was under the impression this was a gift."

"We are business partners boy. I don't give you gifts."

"Maybe you should. Uravenkov did. He understood that I was more powerful than he was. I can break you if necessary. My father will break you for this insolence."

"Somehow I doubt that. Uravenkov was weak. I am not. If you want my guns, you pay for them. Understood? Now, if you want a war, then by all means, kill me. But remember this. Shoot me, and tomorrow you wake up with your balls in your mouth and your head on backwards. Take the guns as a gift to your father. Dasvidania." Taras climbed back into the Mercedes and closed the door. Outside, there was a short conversation in Arabic, then the sound of trucks rolling away. Taras opened the door.

"_Did the package get delivered?"_

_"Yes sir."_

_"Good. Follow him from a safe distance. I want the little prick to see my face when his truck goes up."_

_"Understood sir. May I say it's good to have a real thief in law around here."_

_"Save it. Call the other cars. Tell Sasha to give God a cold."_

_"Yes sir."_

The convoy rolled down the road, the black cars of the Vor following behind silently. Suddenly the air was rent apart by a thunderous gunshot. One of the tires of the rear truck spun away, and the cumbersome vehicle skidded into the rear of the truck ahead. An ear shattering explosion followed as the lead truck burst into flames.

_"Go, go, go!"_

Vor poured from the black cars, automatic rifles spraying the now trapped convoy with lead. Taras watched one of his men cackle like a mad man as he tossed a molotov cocktail into the driver's seat of a truck. The bottle burst, igniting the unfortunate duo inside. A burst of AK-47 fire silenced their screams._  
_

_"Sweep and clear! Stop these fuckers from organizing!"_

Taras moved through the darkness like a ghost, his FNP spitting 45. Caliber rounds into the stunned Arabs. A bullet spun Taras around, sending blood spraying from his arm into the air. The offending shooter fell as a second thunderous gunshot rang out, his head now a mist of blood and gore.

_"Good shot Sasha."_

_"Anytime. Be more careful next time. I though you pricks from FSB knew what you where doing."_

_"More than you boys in GRU. Make sure the Arab doesn't get away."_

_"On it."_

The roar of a Barret 50. Cal echoed out once more, punctuated by a high pitched scream_._

_"Shot him in the leg."_

_"Understood."_

Taras walked through the darkness towards the sound of the moaning Arab.

"My father will fuck you up!" The boy screamed hysterically as he saw Taras.

"I don't think so. He might pay me to leave him alone though." Taras brought up his pistol and fired twice. The boy collapsed."

* * *

Eli David was an opportunistic man. But this was just too good to be true. A convoy of wrecked and smouldering trucks sat in the desert, surrounded by the bodies of dozens of high profile Hamas militia including the son of a major terrorist and cell commander. Spent AK-47 rounds littered the ground, and a large red rose had been spray painted onto the side of each truck.

"Any agencies use rose insignia Ali?" Eli asked a young Mossad agent standing next to him.

"No director."

"Who else has the firepower to pull off a stunt like this?"

"Gun dealers?"

"Nice, let us go with that. Who are the major dealers in the area?"

"Urba Nori. James Trenton, and Taras Stanislav."

"Stanislav?"

"He came in three weeks ago. Old school, new age Russian mob. Probably the replacement of the Chechen."

"Old school new age? Forgive an old man Ali, but I do not speak slang."

"The man follows the laws of the Russian mob to the letter director. He's also completely ruthless, he spent time in Russian special forces, and in Russian intelligence."

"Good catch Ali. Bring my car around, it's time I had a chat with Mr. Stanislav.

"Yes Director."

"The cafe near the office."

"Yes director."

Eli walked away, leaving his companion chattering away on a cell phone. Eli David was an opportunist, and he wasn't about to let a potential ally go to waste.

* * *

Taras smiled softly as he looked out of the window of the cafe. Outside, three children where playing soccer, and women clad in hundreds of colors buzzed through a crowded street market.

"Mr. Stanislav." Taras looked up.

"Ah, Mr. David, how are you. I don;t believe we've met." Taras extended a hand to the old Israeli, who pointedly ignored it.

"A Hamas convoy moving guns was destroyed last night."

"Congratulations."

"It wasn't an Israeli op."

"Oh. I assume you suspect me and my...associates?"

"I thought you're boss and I had an understanding Mr. Stanislav. He didn't deal guns with terrorists and I stayed off his ass."

"The arrangement has changed Mr. David. The Father has given me free reign over these territories."

"He made you a captain?"

"Yes."  
"Fuck. Listen boy, I made my bones while you were still on your mother's tit!" Eli's voice lowered and became harsher. Taras's face remained impassive as the Mossad Director began to snarl at him.

"I can break you and your little fucking friends in half if I want to. Don't fuck with me."

"With all due respect director, I can hurt you too." Taras leaned forwards, a smile creasing his tattooed face. "Have you spoken to Ziva lately?"

Eli froze. "You wouldn't dare."  
"Director, she's an adult. She's old enough to take care of herself. Now, I won't be selling guns to Hamas,as I may have angered one of their cell leaders quite badly. I do expect you to cover my ass in return. Understood."

"The understanding remains the same?"

"Yes."

"What guarantee do I have Mr. Stanislav?"  
"Guarantee? We aren't lawyers Mr. David."

"Of course not. Shalom." Eli rose to his feet and stalked out of the cafe.

"Dasvidania Director." Taras murmured. "Do remember to call your daughter."


	5. No God

I do not own NCIS

_Russian_

English

Arabic

**Hebrew**

Please Review!

* * *

Ziva stretched like a cat as the plane came to a stop. Beside her, Abby Scuito yawned widely and opened her eyes.

"We there yet?"

"Yes Abby, we are here." Abby and Ziva had decided to take the much needed break Gibbs was giving them over the Christmas holidays, and go to Tel Aviv. The hot sun beat down on the tarmac as the pair of women got off the plane with the crowd of excited tourists.

"Oh my god! Ziva! This is soooo cool!" Abby squeaked happily, practically deafening those in the immediate vicinity, including Ziva.

"Abby, please be less noisy! We only just got off the plane and my jetspeed is really awful."

"Jet lag Ziva." Abby corrected.

"What else."

"Whatever Ziva, not what else."

"I really don't care Abby."

"Hey you got that right!"

"Abby, can we please just get a taxi and go to the hotel?"

"Sure Miss. Buzzkill. This is my first time in Israel after all." Abby's chatter continued all the way to the hotel, up to the room and into the bathroom as Ziva showered.

"And then I want to see the Holy Sepulchre, and the Wall..."

"Abby, we can't do that today. It's in Jerusalem and that's a four hour drive at least. I really need to sleep."

"Fine." Abby pouted. "I'll go by myself then."

"Ugh. How about this. You go down and tour the shops, and tomorrow morning first thing, we'll take a car over to Jerusalem."

"Deal!"

The door slammed as Abby sped out of the hotel room.

* * *

Abby returned a few hours later to find Ziva watching TV.

"Hey Ziva!"

"Hello Abby. How was Tel Aviv?"

"Sooo Cool! I found really nice guy while I was out. We're meeting him for dinner at nine."

"Abby! I can't do that tonight."

"Don't be such a killjoy Ziva. Besides, he's hot!"

"Urgh. Fine. Just this once I'll help you out. Never again though okay?"

"Yay!" Ziva groaned in pain as she was crushed in a massive hug. As Abby ran off to go take a shower, Ziva turned back to her TV show, head still aching from over exposure to Abby.

A few hours later, Ziva followed Abby through the crowded streets of Tel Aviv, past several night clubs and restaurants, until they reached a small cafe looking out onto the Mediterranean.

"Here it is! He should be here any..."

"Miss. Scuito."

Abby gave a little squeak and spun around. A tall man with very short cropped hair stood behind them, his face marked by a small tattoo of an ace of spades.

"Hey Taras! Wassup!" Abby hugged the man around the neck, then shrieked excitedly when the man planted a kiss on her exposed neck. Ziva however, had frozen. Taras. Taras, she remembered that name.

"Come on, we're gonna be late for our reservation." The man smiled easily at Ziva, the smile somehow not reaching his cold grey eyes.

Abby tugged Ziva along, as the trio entered the restaurant. They followed a waiter to a table at the back of the restaurant, looking out on the water, the seagulls flying past the open balcony, keening mournfully.

"Taras Stanislavsky." Ziva jerked upright. The man had offered his hand to Ziva, a quizzical look on his face, and Abby was shooting death glares at Ziva.

"What? Oh, sorry. Ziva David."

"Pleasure." Drinks were ordered. Abby got a Shirley Temple, Ziva a beer, much to Abby's disapproval, and the man ordered a full bottle of vodka. As Ziva half listened to Abby and the man called Taras talking, she searched her mind for where she had last heard the man's name.

"Ziva did you here! Taras says we can stay with him while we're in Tel Aviv! This is so cool!"

"Hmm? Oh yes very nice." Ziva murmured distractedly.

"Something on your mind Miss. David?" Taras asked, his face still in a relaxed smile.

"No, nothing. Excuse me, but have we met before?"

"No, I would remember."

"Of course. Sorry."

The trio finished dinner, and Ziva followed Taras and Abby, who now were walking arm in arm, down the streets of Tel Aviv. They entered a car park, and Abby and Ziva stood together while Taras got his car, a sleek black Mercedes convertible. Ziva smiled as she saw Abby begin to shake in excitement.

"You're okay with staying in the guest room Miss David?" Taras asked.

"Of course."

* * *

The house was beautiful. It sat on a cliff overlooking the sea and sunset, four floors rising from the cliffside upwards. Ziva installed herself in a room on the third floor, while a laughing Abby chased by their still smiling host up to the fourth. Ziva took off her shoes and walked out onto the guest room balcony, her hair blowing in the wind from the sea. Above her she heard the muffled sound of a bed shaking, and despite herself, began to laugh.

Hours later, Ziva woke to the sounds of voices outside her room. Padding silently across the floor, Ziva opened her door a crack and peered out. Taras was standing in the hallway, conversing quietly in what sounded like Russian with a monster of a man clad in a dark coat.

"_It's not your fucking business who I bring to bed Ivan. Get that through your fucking skull."_

_"She's a cop you stupid shit! If she finds out who you are..."_

Taras lashed out suddenly, his left hand slamming into the large man's nose so hard it made Ziva wince.

_"You think I don't fucking know that! Get the fuck out of my house Ivan. Send Leo to take your place."_ Taras hissed, his face contorted with anger, blood splatter from the other man's bloody nose dripping down Taras's bare chest. THe big man murmured a hasty apology and trundled quickly down the stairs. Taras swore quietly, then turned back to the stairs back up to the fourth floor.

And stared directly into Ziva's eyes.

Ziva never saw someone move so fast so quietly. One second Taras was several feet away, the next he was tackling Ziva to the floor, expertly blocking the Mossad countermeasures to grapples with effortless efficacy. One hand clamped down on Ziva's mouth to prevent her crying out, the other pinned Ziva's arms above her head, while Taras's legs clamped down on Ziva's.

"It isn't polite to eavesdrop Miss. David." Taras whispered, his face cold and impassive. Then it hit Ziva. Taras Stanislavsky, Russian hitman and the only person Ziva had ever seen beat Gibbs in interrogation.

"Remember me Miss. David."

"Oh my god." Ziva whispered. Taras stopped covering her mouth and reached down to his belt. There was a gentle click as a pistol was cocked, and Ziva felt the cold barrel of a silenced pistol pressed up against her forehead.

"There's not god here Mossad. Just me."


	6. If You Shoot, Don't Miss

Ziva's head swam as she regained consciousness. She was lying in the corner of a cement cell, a solitary light bulb swaying from a cord on the ceiling. Duct tape bound her wrists and hands, and a single strip covered her mouth.

_"She's awake."_

_"Good, go get your captain."_

A tall muscular man stood over Ziva, his face a terrible mass of scars and burns.

"Hello little blue bird." the man grinned, the scars making his face seem to dance. "How about a candy hmm?" The man leaned forwards, his teeth glinting in the faint light.

_"Candy man! Away from her!"_

Taras stood in the door way of the cell.

_"Sorry. I just love the little birds." _the man winked at Ziva and walked out.

"Sorry about that." Taras pulled a metal chair into the center of the cell and sat. "He's not quite right in the head." Taras leaned forwards and gently removed the duct tape from Ziva's mouth.

"Where's Abby?" Ziva gasped, her voice hoarse.

"Miss. Scuito is safe. She is in the cell adjoining."

"What did you do to her?"

"Nothing that should concern you. We need to have a conversation Miss David. Your father has decided to make it a point to make my life difficult and a person in my position cannot afford that. What do you think I should do?"

A sleek black pistol slid from a holster on Taras's shoulder

"You're going to kill me?"

"Do you think I should?" Taras's index finger gently flicked off the safety catch of the weapon. Ziva stared transfixed as he rose to feet and very slowly drew back the hammer of the pistol.

"No!"

" Killing you would solve so many problems Miss David. You're father would submit to me for one."

"My father would hunt you down and kill you!"

"You place far to much on the love your father has for you Miss. David. He has given up far more than family in defense of his Promised Land. Your father values the business relationship he and I have far more than he does your existence I am sorry to say." Ziva felt her heart beating like a drum inside her chest. She was going to die. The bullet would go into her brain and her life would be snuffed out like a candle.

"Goodbye Miss David. It has been a pleasure." Taras raised the gun and smiled. The smile didn't reach his eyes.

_"Sir. A Mr. David here to see you."_

_"Show him in."_

Taras lowered the pistol and returned it to his shoulder holster.

"You lead a charmed life Miss. David."

"What the hell is going on!" Eli David entered the cell, his eyes hard, two nervous looking Mossad agents trailing after him.

"Ah Director. I was just talking to your daughter about our business arrangement."

"Untie her now!"

"I was simply trying to make a point Mr. David. I am not the Chechen, you will not treat me like the next kidnapping will not be a drill."

"My apologies for offending you Mr. Stanislavsky."

"Apology accepted. Take your daughter and her friend home."

"Thank you Mr. Stanislavsky."

"Take care Mr. David."

The two Mossad agents pulled Ziva to her feet, and she walked from the cell into the daylight and heat of Tel Aviv.

* * *

Eli David groaned inwardly as his daughter yelled.

"He was going to kill me! You do business with these people and let them boss you around! You're the fucking head of Mossad! You could get all these bastards killed!"

"No I fucking can't!" Eli David roared. "Do you honestly think I simply let a criminal like that live in Israel free of charge?"

Ziva fell silent at her father's sudden outburst.

"Taras Stanislavsky has supplied Mossad with intel on Taliban, Hamas, and Al Quaeda operations more solid than anything we've had in the past twenty years. He sells them guns then sells them out to us. He is keeping this country aware of almost all the activity in the Middle East. If it involves guns or violence he knows about it. We cannot afford to lose Taras. It's taken a full three years for me to buy the bastard as it is. So don't fucking tell me what to do in my business dealings with Mr. Stanis-fucking-lavsky."

Eli David rubbed his eyes gently.

"I am sorry Ziva. You must understand that Taras is not some street thug or gun smuggler. He is a Spetznaz agent who not only went rogue, but took his team with him and then evaded capture by the Russian GRU. It takes quite alot of skill to manage that. He now runs all Middle Eastern operations for the Vory v Zakone..."

"Who?"

"Russian Mafia, the Thieves by Law. Taras is one of twenty captains working under a crime boss called "The Father". The Father has some anti terrorist leanings. His son was killed in the 9/11 attacks and Taras does the old man's dirty work. The last guy to have the Mid East post was called the Chechen. Poor man was found with his body in seven different pieces. Someone had taken a chainsaw to him. Taras replaced him and since then we've seen half as many rockets falling on Israel. Something that man is doing is making some very dangerous men very scared. He's a bit of a hero in this office Ziva, don't insult the man."

"Father." Ziva nodded coldly, glaring daggers at the old man. She turned on her heel and marched out of the office.

* * *

She spent the next couple hours in the Mossad gym, sparring with various agents who she left battered and bruised. Her clothes stuck to her body, and she was short of breath when she finally walked out of the gym. She walked out into the early evening, the crisp air cooling the sweat on her skin. As she walked across to the car she used whenever she saw her father, she saw a face she had hoped never to see again.

"Back away." Ziva drew her pistol so quickly she nearly dropped it.

"Whoa...put weapon away please." Taras replied. "I am here to talk only. If you wish you may search me."

"I know you have a gun."

"No, but the man on the roof across the street with the Barrett is getting rather nervous. Please point that somewhere else."

"What do you want?"

Taras's face darkened. "I did not want our first meeting to go the way it did. It is poor form to hit a woman."

"Do not patrocide."

"Patronize."

"Whatever. Don't do it."

"Apologies. I understand you are nervous but could you please put away the gun, I really wish I had my sidearm."

"Fine." Ziva lowered her gun slowly. "Why are you here?"

"To apologize. As I said, I don't attempt to hit women."

"You don't seem like someone who would be bothered by something like that."

"If one sins against god, one might as well have morals." Taras smirked. "I am what you could call a killer with standards."

"You do not amuse."

"As you say."

Ziva glared.

"What does the bullseye tattoo mean?"

"Which tattoo?"

"The one on the back of your head."

"Oh, that is a very old tattoo. How did you notice it?"

"I saw it in the Interrogation at NCIS."

"Oh that's right, you where there. You dislocated my shoulder. The tattoo is a warning."

"Meaning?"

"If you shoot, don't miss. Good night Miss David, welcome to Tel Aviv."


	7. Get What Is Owed

I do not own NCIS

_Russian_

Hebrew

**Middle Eastern Dialect**

English

* * *

It had been months since Ziva's return from Israel. Abby had recovered from her encounter with Taras Stanislav and Gibbs's impotent fury had somewhat abated, as had Tony's. Any mention of Russia, Israel, or Taras would set off Tony on a furious rant, and make Gibbs storm out to get coffee. Abby had refused to come to work for weeks after coming home, and now required a security guard to stand outside her lab while she was there, and was staying at Ziva's when the work day ended. Ziva had taken up sleeping with her gun under her pillow once more, a habit she had slowly stopped since she had been with NCIS.

"Hello Gibbs." Ziva murmured as the grim special agent stormed by towards the elevator.

"Ziver." Gibbs growled. Ziva winced. Gibbs had held her responsible for letting Abby get attacked. Although she hated to admit it, he was right. Her instincts had been dull, she should have recognized the Russian who had broken her nose only weeks earlier. Mossad Ziva would have. Mossad Ziva would have put a bullet in his brain the second she saw him. But NCIS Ziva had let her friend get attacked and let herself get taken hostage.

Groaning inwardly, Ziva put her head down on her desk.

* * *

Gibbs grimaced to himself as the elevator went down. He really needed caffeine. A buzzing in his pocket took his mind off the coffee urge and the anger he still felt towards Ziva, himself, and the Russian mobster who had played all of them.

"Yeah Gibbs."

"I hear you're looking for Taras Stanislav."

"Who is this?"

"My name isn't important. What is important is that I can help you get to Mr. Stanislav. Meet me at the bar you go to every Friday. Come alone." The line went dead.

Unable to help himself, Gibbs grinned. The gut feeling was back, and it told him the hunt was on once again.

Twenty minutes later, Gibbs was at the bar. He was met at the door by a young latino man.

"You call me?"

"Yeah. Come on in." Together Gibbs and the man walked through the bar into a back room.

"Sit." said the young man, pointing to a chair.

"First tell me who you are."

"Sit first, then we'll talk."

"No."

"Agh fine. Look, I used to do business with the russian you're looking for."

"What kind of business?"

"Fuck you man I'm not tellin a cop what I do."

"Okay," Gibbs pulled out his badge and tossed it onto the table in the middle of the room. "Right now I'm not a cop. What business?"

"I moved drugs. Real weight too. Me and my boys would get deliveries of several thousand keys of primo junk and it would take us weeks to move all that shit. We did some heavier shit for em too, we moved some guns did a few hits."

"Can you get the Russian to meet you?"

"Fuck man, I don't have his number, no one does. I've never even seen the cold fuck."

"Then why are we having this conversation?" Gibbs growled, snatching up his badge and walking towards the door.  
"Yo man, hold on a minute! Look, I got a bunch of other guys who did business with Mr. Stanislav coming over here. I checked em out too. They aren't fond of him either. Way I see it, with us you can make a nice little package to send this russian bastard away on." The young man grinned at Gibbs slyly. "Maybe even get him a needle eh?"

"Why are you ratting? All of you, why are you prepared to rat out Stanislav. From what I know, he'll come for you when he finds out."

"Like I care. I've got so much protection it don't matter who he sends. He could come himself and just end up a chalk outline. The fucker treats everyone who ain't in his little "organization" like total shit. Do you know how much I got paid to move twelve tons of cocaine? Ten percent. That's it. I do all the work, I sell all the shit, and all I get is a lousy ten percent. Then most of that goes to covering my ass!"

"What did you end up making?"

"Couple mill but that ain't the point! The Russians they don't respect nuthin. They fuck you up for looking at em wrong and they'll step on you just for kicks. I should get what's owed. That Taras fuck won't pay, so maybe you will."


	8. That Settles That

I do not own NCIS

_Russian_

Hebrew

**Middle Eastern Dialect**

English

Hey Guys, I know I haven't updated in forever but stuffs really been kinda hectic. I didn't like the last chapter I put up for this, so I figured a good restart was in order, starting from CH 8. Also, as of now, I will be running a little competition on this story. I want everyone to watch the movie _Eastern Promises_ by David Cronenberg. There is a tattoo on the main characters chest. The first person to tell me what that tattoo means, will win a fabulous prize! (STILL TO BE DETERMINED) Good Luck.

I'm back bitches!

* * *

Director Jenny Shepard grimaced at the two FBI agents sitting in front of her.

"I'm sorry, you want to do what?"

"We need one of your teams." One of the agents said.

"Look, Director Shepard, I know this is completely unorthodox." The other began.

"Unorthodox? I don't even know if I have the authority for this!" Shepard replied.  
"We checked. You do. Anyway, your agency came into contact with people that we haven't been able to locate for decades. We at the FBI organized crime Russian desk are responsible for dealing with the spread of the Russian Mob in the U.S. Your agents could be an immense asset to us."

"One second gentlemen. Donna!" Shepard called to her secretary. "Get Special Agent Gibbs and his team up here."

"Thank you director."

"Don't thank me. Now, if you want to work with my agents, we need to know everything you know."

"Not a problem." A briefcase was placed on Shepard's desk. "This director, is everything we have. Hard copies, computer files, photos, everything."

Nodding to the director, the duo walked out, passing a grim faced Agent Gibbs on his way in.

* * *

The bullpen was a complete mess. A blackboard had been set up, covered in photos and red lines connecting one to the others.

"I don't get it." McGee whined. "Is Dvorkin working with Yuri Pankov?"

"No Probie," Tony mumbled, head resting on his desk. "Dvorkin is Pankov. We've been over this, God I'm tired… OWW Boss!" Gibbs hand had flicked out against Tony's head.

"Ziva, talk to me." A haggard looking Ziva looked up from her desk, which was covered in papers.

"Nevsky Bratva is, according to this, part of the Odessa Gang." Ziva held up a FBI file. "They pay tithe to the bigger Russian organizations in New York. Most of that money comes from drug trade and gun smuggling."

"Tony, names and places."

Tony Dinozzo waved vaguely at the blackboard. "There's like two hundred guys here, all in different places on the East Coast. You've got Pankov in Miami." Tony pointed at the picture of a fat man. "He manages drug coming in from South America. There's Lerche in Georgia, and Shubovich in Virginia. These files call them zools, whatever that is."

"Mules." Ziva replied.

Tony stuck his tongue out at Ziva. "Anyway, as I was saying before I was interrupted…"

"Get on with it Dinozzo."

"Yes Boss. Those two move product up the coast and into the Midwest towards Kansas and Texas. Now here's where things get weird." Tony pointed to a group of five men, above the mass of other faces. These five had been circled in black ink. "These five, shouldn't be here. No criminal connections, no criminal records in the U.S, all but one are U.S citizens, and all but one work in restaurants around Maryland."

"So who are they."

"I think these are the bosses." McGee cut in. Tony glared. "I know Tony thinks these guys are just well hidden, but this is too clean. Also, they didn't make a fuss about their records in Russia. Our perp is here as well." McGee pointed to a picture of Taras Stanislav. "According to his FBI file, Stanislav is a torpedo, a mob hitman. That guy over there, Kirill Udrenko is another one. These two, are Oleg and Boris Yamatov, the bulls, bodyguards for this guy." McGee tapped the upper most photo, a blurry picture of an old man. "The Father. No name, no information, this guy doesn't even have an address. This is, I think, the Don. These four answers to him, and the rest are somehow managed by the four."

"Good work McGee. Tony, what else have you got for me? How does our snitch tie into this?"

"Our snitch is all the way down here." Tony pointed to a photo at the very bottom of the blackboard. "These guys are smart. They never actually move anything themselves. These guys down here move the drugs, the guns, whatever, and they pay tribute to the bigger guys, who then pay a tribute to a bigger guy, and so it goes, all the way up, and on the way, the money gets laundered and becomes legal. I'm sorry boss, but whatever these guys are into, it's legal. That money's changed so many hands that we couldn't take it to court with a drunk jury."

"So you're telling me we have no case? Even with a rat, who knows our perps name, and can testify to that."

The bull pen went silent "Boss, our rat is a convicted felon. His testimony won't stand. He can't identify Stanislav, he only knows the guy's name." McGee began.

"Fuck!" Gibbs growled. Tony and Ziva flinched. Gibbs never got this angry. "So we have no case, even after this."

"Not quite." The bull pen whirled around. The FBI duo that had been in the director's office hours earlier entered the pen.

"Who are you?"

"Agent Hallman and Agent Yubrov." The agent named Hallman replied.

"Can you help?" Tony asked.

"I think so." Yubrov grinned, his heavy jowls quivering. "The problem with getting these guys, is that evidence is so hard to get hold of. The best way would be to send in an undercover, but the Russians have a habit of catching them. And we can't find our guys once that happens. But this little situation presents a unique opportunity. Israel is on board for an undercover op. This gang," the fat FBI agent gestured to the blackboard. "has gone international. The Israeli government is willing to work with the FBI to get someone into the Nevsky Bratva. We need NCIS on board, and then this thing can get started."

"Why do you need NCIS?" Gibbs asked warily.

"Because we need someone who can speak Russian and Hebrew." Hallman replied, glancing at Ziva. "The Russians know every cop in Tel Aviv, so Israel can't send someone in. We need NCIS, to provide the agent."

"No." Tony, Gibbs, and McGee said.

"Yes." Said Ziva.

"What?" Gibbs glared at Ziva. "Ziver, I will not permit you to go through with this. Not after what happened to you and Abbs."

"You think I can't handle it?" Ziva asked, a little too loudly.

"No Ziva, that's not…" Tony began.

"You think I can't do this anymore!" Ziva snapped. It had been over a month since her run in with Taras Stanislav in Tel Aviv, and it had only be a few weeks ago that Gibbs had allowed her to return to work. Abby wasn't even back yet, going through therapy at a local hospital. The girl had been terrified out of her mind, and it was a wonder Ziva wasn't in therapy with her. When sh got back, she wasn't scared like Abby, or angry like Tony and Gibbs. She didn't want McGee's sympathy, and she didn't need Ducky's support. She felt weak. She had been so used to winning any fight she went into, she had been shaken by the ease with which Stanislav had batted her aside. She had felt helpless. That had to change.

"I'm not going to let you…" Gibbs began again but Ziva interrupted. "You won't let? I'm sorry Gibbs, but this is my choice! If I get fired for it, fine, but I'm going to get that bastard!" Ziva slammed her hand against Stanislav's photo, knocking the blackboard over. The bullpen was silent.

"Well… I guess that settles that." Agent Hallman mumbled.


End file.
